by Charlotte-Anne Allen

A sigh a stirring
Cool touch at day’s end
Moist whisper speaks
From night skies and
Hints of rain to come

Its indrawn breath
Stills the voices
Of insects and frogs
As the first taste of
Nature’s drink descends

From my open window
I breathe deeply
Releasing the day’s work
Welcoming the growing
Soft patter of quiet drops

Refreshing quenching
Soaking into thirsty soil
As downspouts begin
To gurgle and wash away
Accumulated debris

Drops rustle leaf and limb
As they dip and sway
Now flowing eagerly
Drawn into seeking roots
And renewing souls



CharlotteAnneAllen Headshot

Charlotte-Anne Allen is a writer and a creative blogger who loves to offer encouragement and to share thoughts about life and faith, through poems and reflections. She was a guest author for a daily devotional for homeschool moms and has served as a speech-language pathologist for over thirty-five years. Charlotte-Anne is a member of Compel (a writers’ group) and was a founding member of Jerry Jenkins Writers Guild. You can find her at her blog, “The Still Small Voice – For Just a Weed” (

Message on the Mountain

Message on the Mountain
by Ashlyn McKayla Ohm

Too trite, too terse, too stale, too small—ideas dangled in the air, yet I could hold none in my hands. I needed something to write, some prose to pin to paper. But again and again, my frantic fumblings ended with empty hands.

As always happens, doubt stalked on the heels of defeat.  What if all my ideas had vanished?  What if I had nothing left to say?

As any writer knows, this is the hiss from the empty hallways of the mind, the shadow specter that haunts—this notion that creativity, after all, might be a finite resource, that no matter how deep the well might seem to drop, one day I’ll dip my pen in ink and it will come up dry.  Was today the day?

I’d felt it before, the kinetic spark to unwind my words, so I laced up my shoes and went for a run.  The temperatures were unseasonably cool for spring in Arkansas, but the humidity was heavy, silver mist hovering over the newly green fields.  Up the mountain I ran, under the canopy of fresh-sprouting leaves—still fumbling, still flailing, still fearing.  Over my head, the ideas floated just out of reach, like the steely clouds in the sky.  But not a drop of rain fell.

I reached the top of the mountain—a wild and wooded place, where time and space intersect in odd coordinates.  And panting there, under the pine trees, I was captured by the thought of another mountain.  The story flashed before my eyes—Jesus wrapped in light, Transfiguration tremendous and terrifying, while the voice of God shook the hills.  Perhaps a weak parallel, but after all, wasn’t that what I’d done—come up this mountain to hear from God?

So what did I hear?

An echo of Scripture, John’s words to the church:  “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands, concerning the word of life—the life was made manifest, and we have seen it, and testify to it and proclaim to you the eternal life” (1 John 1:1-2 ESV).

John had bowed on the mountain.  He’d seen the Shekinah shatter the everyday like lightning, and He’d glimpsed the Son of God—more profoundly than I could ever hope to this side of Heaven.  And what did he find?  Not a fresh idea, not a brilliant concept, but the power of a Person—Jesus.  And decades later, when he penned this letter near the end of his life, his heart was still overflowing with the Man he fully met on the mountain.

I ran back down the slopes, back toward home.  The fog still swirled over the fields, but it was beginning to lift in my spirit.

So here I am, weaving these words while rain soundly soaks the world outside my window.  Showers of blessing, perhaps?  All I know is I don’t need a new idea; I need a new heart.  When all is said and done, my only offering is a simple song—the song of my Savior, the story of His sacrifice.  And with my fears and failures, mistakes and mishaps, I will continue telling what I have seen and heard.  Not new ideas, not trendy takes—just the old, old story of Love—still the best news I could ever bring.



Ashlyn Ohm_author photo_cropped 2

A passionate follower of Jesus Christ, Ashlyn McKayla Ohm finds her writing calling where her heart for God and her love for His creation intersect. Born and raised in rural Arkansas on the shoulders of the Ouachita Mountains, she’s most at home where the streetlights die and the pavement ends.  She is the author of the devotional A Year in the Woods and is forever grateful that God has given her the gift of not only exploring His beautiful world but also using her words to prayerfully draw others to Him. Follow her adventures on her blog, Words from the Wilderness, or on Instagram and Facebook.

Mining the Moments for Joy

Mining the Moments for Joy
by Sue Fulmore

This morning I noticed the ghostly image, as the sun traced the outline of my window upon the sloped ceiling of my writing room. The edges were indistinct, soft.

Last night the sun slanted across our kitchen table, haloing the ordinary bowl of soup and freshly made biscuits. A simple meal turned elegant with the sun’s warm glow.

Maybe it is because, for the majority of the past two years, life has been lived within these four walls, that I am noticing more. Since there are fewer distractions from outside, fewer social engagements or calls for my attention, I begin to see the small, everyday moments. I am aware of how often I have passed by the small on my way to something bigger and better. This enforced slowing has taught me to remove my sandals and notice the moments of holiness right here in the ordinary.

It was only when God saw that Moses had stopped what he was doing and was paying attention, that He called to him from the burning bush.[i] This story makes me pause to wonder how often this has happened in my own life. I wonder how regularly have I been so intent on my plans, my efficiency in all things, that I fail to stop and take note.

I am learning to pause long enough to hear the inner rumblings of my heart and soul. The longings are making themselves heard as I spend time in stillness. The emotions I would normally push aside while I went on to the next project or chore, are now held up to the light and examined. I am learning more of what it means to “listen to my life” as Frederick Buechner says. I am starting to “see it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness…”[ii]

For the first time in many years, I have been bored. The days stretch out before me with no scaffolding or boundaries. There are times when the canyon between morning and evening seems too wide and too deep to traverse. Boredom becomes my teacher, asking me to pay attention to the often overlooked, sparking a desire to create and try new things.

I pay attention to the world outside my window. Every arrival of a new variety of bird is noted, their antics observed. I was on hand to witness the murmurings of flocks of cedar waxwings as they dipped and soared as one unit. I watch as they strip the mountain ash of its berries, becoming tipsy from the fermented fruit. As the sun goes down, I celebrate the intricate dark web of branches back-lit by cotton candy skies. Watching the trees for signs of life, I wait for the bursting open of the scales protecting the tender buds at just the right moment. I listen for the spring call of the chickadees, and look for the gradual browning of rabbit fur. I notice the squirrel outside the window, safe on his perch high in a tree, as he scolds the neighbor cat, and laugh at the absurdity.

Small children have always known how to pay attention to the little things. They are the ones who stop to watch the caterpillar make its way across the sidewalk, or get close to the ground to see the patterns in the thin layer of ice on the puddle. I feel like a child again and I search for all of the gifts wrapped into each moment by the Giver. Is this what Jesus means when He tells us to become like little children?[iii] That we pay attention to the moment we are in, searching for the sight of Him in the midst of the mess of where we are? Can we be like the children, welcome each day, each hour, and moment with trust, openness and hope?

This noticing, this paying attention is grounding me in the present. I am not looking back to the way things were, nor forward to what may be, but only allowing myself to root in the moment I am living. I am becoming like a child who only knows how to dwell in the now. I pray for daily bread, not weekly bread, and trust the good Father to supply the need of the moment.

I am realizing this is where joy resides.

Collectively we have become more aware of our fragility lately. Maybe for the first time in our lives we contemplate the number of our days as we see many around us succumbing to an illness, we never knew 2 years ago. It is often those who are on the threshold of death, who become most keenly aware of life. I read about an oncologist who tells his patients to start the day with this mantra, “I do not know what will happen next week or next year. But I know I have the gift of this day, and I will not waste it”.[iv] This outlook makes us laser-focused on today, and all the joy to be had from each moment it contains.

When each breath and each day are viewed as gifts we are awakened to all that is beautiful, good and true. We become aware of the ways God is bending toward us, attentive to our needs, in it all alongside us. It is in His presence, and ultimately nowhere else, where we find fullness of joy.

Today may we listen more closely to our lives and “touch, taste, smell our way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”[v]

[i] Exodus 3:4

[ii] Frederick Buechner, Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation

[iii] Matthew 18:1-6

[iv] How to Overcome a Fear of Failure – The Atlantic

[v] Frederick Buechner, Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation



Sue Fulmore is a freelance writer and speaker, seeking to use words to awaken mind and soul to the realities of the present.  Some of her work has been published at Red Letter Christians, The Perennial Gen, Convivium Magazine, Joyful Life Blog, and Asbury Seminary Soul Care Community. Like a prospector panning for gold, she uses her pen to uncover beauty and truth hidden just below the surface of our lives. She is the mother of two adult daughters and lives in sunny Alberta, Canada with her retired husband. You can find her at Instagram and

A Season to Love

A Season to Love
by Jodie McCallie

Everything is brown and gray
The earth, the trees, the sky
It’s the winter of despair
It seems to go on without end
Until, as if overnight
The camelia blooms victoriously
A burst of hope in pink and red
And another day
The Japanese magnolia triumphs
Though branches still bare of leaves
Its daring display of flowers erupts
Daffodils push through
Green shoots start to appear
Even the sky on occasion is blue
And those first warming rays
Warm me right through
New life seems in the air
Possibility returns
I relish this “in between”
For all too soon the days will scorch
But right now, is a season to love
Full of beauty and promise




Jodie McCallie is an Australian who has embraced her life in the United States. She is a part time poet, who makes her living in corporate America. Jodie loves nature and connecting with God through the beauty of His creation. She uses poetry to worship, and to make sense of the world around her, and is currently exploring the value of poetry as a gateway to healing and personal growth. Jodie lives in Georgia with her husband and two rescue dogs. You can find her on Facebook.

A Turn in the River

A Turn in the River
by Melanie Weldon-Soiset

We visit caverns, meadows and reefs after this—
a turn in the river that leads us to sleep.

The gates to these landscapes unlock behind
our eyelids; rest is the key that opens them.

These places mark their own music: a symphony
in rhythm with our rapid eye movement,

breath, and pulse. Can you hear the waves
from other voices, singing new galaxies?

From other voices singing new galaxies:
breath and pulse. Can you hear the waves

in rhythm with our rapid eye movement?
These places mark their own music, a symphony.

Our eyelids: rest is the key that opens them.
The gates to these landscapes unlock behind

a turn in the river that leads us to sleep.
We visit caverns, highlands and reefs after this.



Melonie Headshot

Melanie Weldon-Soiset’s poetry has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, Better Than Starbucks, Geez, Amethyst Review, and others. A 2021 New York Encounter poetry contest finalist, Melanie is a #ChurchToo survivor, and former pastor for foreigners in Shanghai. Find her online at, or on Twitter and Instagram @MelanieWelSoi.

Sweat and Sacred Sunrise

Sweat and Sacred Sunrise
by Leslie McLeod

When I head out to the gym in the morning, the sky is still dark, the stars fighting for the last word with the approaching dawn.

I don’t really like to exercise, but I like the feeling a good workout gives me. So I crawl out of bed, swap PJs for yoga pants and a sweatshirt, then drive half-awake to my small group training session, just 10 minutes away.

When I’m running late, I can usually grab a corner space among all the other women focused on their fitness.

But a secret reward awaits me when I show up early.

I get to claim my favorite spot at the end of the corridor across from the gym’s east-facing front window. As we warm up and stretch, I watch as shades of deep indigo and gray gradually surrender to a spectacular light show, a slow explosion of shimmering crimson and gold. The powerful beauty infuses my cardio with energy, my muscles with strength, my spirit with delight. Fiery brilliance of sunrise subsides, breathless, into gentle pastels…lilac, pink, coral. As we finish our workout, the sky settles on a hue barely blue, silhouetting the trees and street signs outside.

Working out is drudgery, no question. But for those few moments, my sweat has been sanctified by extravagant, fleeting glory. I tuck away the memory of this morning gift along with my water bottle and towel, then step out into the day with a hallelujah smile.

LAMcLeod-2021-editLiving near the Southern California coast, Leslie’s artistic leanings balance her role as co-owner of a tech company with her husband. She picks up her pen again after a hiatus to raise their two children and develop a passion for painting. Having lost her parents a few years ago, she is writing a book to help other women walk through that painful season without the added burden of unresolved relationship regret. Leslie also writes articles, poetry, and a blog. She loves to share the voice of her soul’s Beloved. She writes and paints at and you can connect with her on Facebook and Instagram.

The Spiritual Practice of Gardening

The Spiritual Practice of Gardening
by Jody L. Collins

“The seed catalogues are a further promise of warm days to come. I class them as fiction and love to read them. Oh, the beautiful roses and tall spikes of delphinium and the flowering bushes-not to mention the carrots as big as telephone poles and the peas that practically shell themselves… We get some pretty fine vegetables and some nice flowers, but they definitely do not resemble the champion parade in the catalogues.”           Gladys Taber, ‘Stillmeadow Seasons’

* * * * * * * *

I am a Southern California girl, born and raised, transplanted 25 years ago to the Pacific Northwest near Seattle.  The weather is starkly different than my old Orange County clime. There are no, ahem, seasons in Southern California, only a variation on the words ‘sunny’, ‘partially sunny’, ‘mostly sunny’, ‘warm’ and ‘cool’.  Flowers bloom year ’round, vegetables can be picked at any time and trees never drop their leaves.

I’ve grown to love the weather changes here in this Northwest corner of the world where there are definitely seasons –fulsome Springs, rich, green Summers, colorful Autumns and the bare bones gray of Winter.

Of course, this particular location on the globe precludes a lot of extra care in gardening and upkeep. My husband and I spent a few hours outside the other day in unseasonably warm March weather to tackle the pruning of our trees. There are no buds yet on the empty, gray branches of our maples and magnolia, so the timing is right for this necessary husbandry. In the backyard, buds are just surfacing on the lilacs and the forsythia are threatening to burst into yellow like an invisible promise. We need to hurry–blooming is in their botanical blood and the flowers will come whether we prune or not.

Inside where it was warm I pondered the view to my back yard and the bare spot of my vegetable garden. I’m in more of a pondering stage about that space right now–do I REALLY want to invest in the time it takes to get that spinach in this year? If I do, should I add carrots and beets like last time? The lettuce worked well, the potatoes took off, there’s even leftover garlic and the Mint that Will Not Die.

The thing about seeds is, given soil, scattering, sunshine and water they’ll pretty much grow without looking. That’s always a startling miracle to me—that I would plant a zucchini or lemon cucumber seed and 2 weeks later, up comes that lime green curl, sprouts pushing through the dirt and why, look at that! Overnight it’s a vine.

(And then of course, you have more zucchini and cucumbers than you know what to do with, which is how you meet your neighbors. But that’s another post….)

I was thinking about my life and growth in Jesus being like that.  When He plants the bare shell of a seed with an idea or a dream, I really have to trust He will do what he says. There is life in the seed.

Regardless of the weather, regardless of the bleak, bare soil, there is hope.  There is life. Besides the hope, there is power for growth in the seeds; I can’t do anything about making them grow.  Nothing.  Just rest and trust it will happen.  In God’s time, by His power.

Likewise, when God plants something in our lives, a dream, a desire, a gift, He intends for it to grow. I have despaired often that the changes and growth I want to see in my life often bring me back to repetitive prayers and the question of whether what God has said will ever come to pass. But its clear, his promises come in their own time. We really can’t force them, we can only make room, let God water the seed, and live in the light of His Son while God brings the miracle.

What gift or promise has God planted in your life? What dreams are you living into right now? If it is God, it will grow.  

* * * * * * * * * *

“It is all very well to keep other men’s vineyards, but we must not neglect our own spiritual growth and ripening.  Why should it always be winter time in our hearts?  We must have our seed time, it true, but O for a spring time–yea, a summer season, which shall give promise of an early harvest.  If we would ripen in grace, we must live near to Jesus –in his presence-ripened by the sunshine of his smiles.”

CH Spurgeon, Morning by Morning



head shot b, w, Kris Camealy at Refine March 2019

Jody Collins is a blatant philologist and poetry lover living in the Pacific Northwest with her very patient husband. She uses both gardening and writing as therapy, often featuring her 6 grandchildren, whom she thanks God for daily. Jody’s been penning words since Smith-Corona typewriters graced the desks of her middle school, but nowadays you can find her thoughts at  Twitter: @JodyLeeCollins2  Instagram: @jody_lee_collins

Our One True Constant

Our One True Constant
by Rochelle Bauer

Nineteen years old and ready to take on the world. I was invincible and had the world at my fingertips. I thought I knew all I needed to know to get through life. Oh, how naïve I was.

There was so much to come—so much heartache, so many losses, so much to learn. I had no idea. I thought I understood it all. I thought I had already fully lived because of the struggles I’d already faced as a teen. Boy, was I wrong.

Married at twenty and trying to mesh two very different lifestyles wasn’t easy. We both grew up differently and found ourselves set in our ways. Yet somehow, we made it work.

Little did I know that no matter how much you want it, only God gets to decide when you can start a family. I learned that particular lesson over and over and over again, too many times, in my opinion.

When I did get pregnant, no one prepared me for preterm labor, a baby in the NICU, and the fact that I would have to leave the hospital without my baby. You only hear of the great miracle of childbirth and the indescribable bond. No one tells you that you might not be able to hold your baby for days, let alone feed them or care for them. Who can prepare you for seeing your newborn in an incubator with tubes going every which way?

Then there are the unthinkable, unimaginable situations. Childhood cancer. The plane rides, surgeries, chemo, and the daily ups and downs. What parent prepares to see their child in such a state? I surely wasn’t prepared, even though I was now twenty-eight.

The white casket. The white roses and greenery at the front of the church. The family picture displayed that will never be retaken. There’s no preparation for that moment. There’s no way you can fully prepare to kiss your baby goodbye for the last time.

Two years later, you’re being rushed into surgery to deliver yet another baby. Crying because you’re so scared something is wrong with this child, as well. Why else would they be scurrying around?

But when you see the face of your third son, you have only utter and unexplainable joy on your face. You see the miracle God has provided for you once again, and you have all you can do to contain your emotions. So, you don’t. You cry and thank God for this precious gift of life. This is what thirty looks like. A six-year-old and a newborn. Years of loss and years of gain. Does this mean it all balances out? I’m not sure yet.

Then cancer comes again. This time it’s your mom. You’re thirty-six and driving her to and from appointments as your life melds with hers. You juggle parenting your kids, having a marriage, and taking care of your parent. It seems like so much, but you wouldn’t change this time for the world. Your own immediate family appears to be left in the dust, but they learn the importance of helping others. It’s a lesson you can only teach by example. You pray you’re teaching them correctly and not neglecting them. What choice do you have?

When forty comes, your mom is gone. You wait for her phone call that never comes. She’s with Jesus now, and phone calls aren’t part of heaven, although you wish they were. You miss her and wonder how you’ll live the next forty-odd years without a mother. Yet, somehow you do. This is adulthood, take it or leave it.

Forty-four comes in quietly during a pandemic and appears to be leaving chaos and more loss in its wake. No one can prepare you for all that is to come in life: not at nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-six, forty, or forty-four. Just when you think you have a grasp on life, it throws you another loop and finds you gasping for air.

The only constant in my life is Jesus Christ. He was with me in each circumstance when others weren’t around. He was in the NICU with my son, the funeral for our second son, the operating room with our third. He was in each exam room with my mom and was with me as I waited for the birthday wish that would never come. He’s with me now as I face uncertainty.

He is the calm amidst the storm and the only One I can truly depend on. How about you? Do you know Jesus? Do you know He is beside you and will never leave you? He is worth getting to know, and He can carry you through.

Dear Jesus, Thank You for being the ever-present constant in our lives. When life throws us around in the wind, we know You are at the center, ready to steady us. No matter what we’re facing, help us look for you like a beacon of light in the dark. Remind us You will never leave us nor forsake us, even when others do. In Your Precious Name, we pray, Amen.




Rochelle lives in rural Minnesota where the winters are long but beautiful and the summers are short but sweet. She is wife to Daniel and mom to three sons, one of whom is with Jesus. Rochelle loves music, long baths, a good book, and a long nap. She has a deep desire to share how God has moved in her life, and how He continues to show His faithfulness.

You can find her on Instagram at @rochelle_bauer_writer and on her blog at

We Shall Endure

We Shall Endure
by Gloria Hsu

I don’t know how to deal with this pain so the pain deals with me.

By overtaking my body in fits of sobbing that come from somewhere deeper than I can reach myself, a hidden place known only to the pain itself. Only pain itself can tolerate it or hold space for it.  Anything else or anyone else would crumble under its weight.

So I let my pain feel my pain for me. I let it absorb my hurt and consume my agony, shielding me from being paralyzed by the grief or being swallowed whole by the sorrow.

It breathes for me, protecting me from suffocation. It somehow keeps my body from being torn in two by the wild clawing from both outside and within myself.

My pain deals with what I cannot, must not, in order for me to go on surviving.  I can only suppress screams and sing silent songs from deep within.

If the sound escaped, glass would shatter and my children would be afraid. My knowing pain holds my body upright and keeps me from collapsing into a formless heap on the ground.  It keeps me awake and somewhat aware of life happening all around me. It forces my lips to smile at what someone says and pushes me to care about someone else’s pain. But I can’t reside there, where my pain might surface unannounced.

Pain gives me the strength to turn the conversation away from myself so that I don’t unravel into a million threads or give away too much of my heart.

Pain lets me put it onto a shelf and wonder where I left it, giving me a respite from the burning ache and the memories.  Sometimes I look for it, but I can’t find it.  And I wonder…was the pain even real?  Or was it imagined? Because I seem okay now without it.  Until pain itself reminds me that I am not okay-not deeply.  It knows when I need reminding because it knows my body better than I know it myself. And my body looks to my pain to cry out for me or it will break under the pressure.  It will burst open at the cracks with too many wounds to heal all at once.  And where will that leave me?  Bleeding out in too many places for a hundred hands to save me.

Pain knows I need saving and it won’t ever stop fighting to see me and to heal me.

Why didn’t anyone ever tell me that pain would be my friend?

“We draw our strength from the very despair in which we have been forced to live.  We shall endure.”  (Cesar Chavez, “Four Winds”)




Gloria Hsu expresses her heart through journaling and songwriting. She loves to share about and listen to stories of God speaking in the every day and struggles of life. A piece she authored was recently published in a Proverbs 31 Ministries devotional book. You will find her drinking orange juice green tea in Taiwan, where she lives with her husband and 4 boys. Their youngest has Down Syndrome and that’s a God-story too. She is the co-founder of Pregnancy Support Center in Taiwan. She is a certified facilitator of Circle of Security Parenting (COSP). She blogs at

New Rhythms

New Rhythms
by Sonia Abraham

Among the bare winter-worn trees, a flock of starlings lifts from their roosting spot. They loom across the sky like a thin black lace veil. They change directions, forming new shapes with every movement. The flock contracts into a heart, then stretches across the sky in a long, sinewy band, then contracts into a tight sphere. This murmuration of starlings, the ebb and flow of shape and form of birds, happens every evening at dusk in the winter here close to this particular spot where I sit captivated. The darkening shadows of the trees, barren of all their leaves, turn their gray, naked branches upward as if offering their applause.

The flock moves back and forth, back and forth across the graying sky. They soar upward, then zoom down, move east, then west, holding each direction for a few seconds before changing. The patterns appear both random and purposeful. It is breathtaking and bewildering. Which bird leads? When a few birds straggle behind, how do they quickly fall back into place? How do they know where to go and what shape they will form? I’m mesmerized by the unexpected beauty of the warp and weft of their formations that stretch and contract into an endless number of designs. Scientists have offered possible reasons for these murmurations, but they still have no definitive answers.

I raise my hand to the sky, wanting to trace my hand along the surface of the flock, skimming each bird’s smooth iridescent feathers as they move left, then right, then back again. This rhythm feels both soothing and surprising, every shape formed differs slightly from the last.

The rhythms of my own life that once felt smooth and predictable were disrupted a few years ago when my marriage ended in a painful, unexpected divorce. I felt the fabric of my life had unraveled. Torn apart never to be put back together again. The straight lines of my life were stretched thin, pulled taut, and twisted. The thin threads at the edge of my soul were frayed. I came undone. I moved back and forth, tracing over the fading lines of that life, craving familiar patterns that formed into new directions, longing for them to conform to familiar shapes, trying to make sense of rhythms that felt unnatural.

My heart murmured questions to God. Why did this happen? Why me? Why now? It was the beginning of a long season of loss upon loss. How much more? These groanings which once went against the fabric of my being to complain to God were an honest examination seeking answers from the One who is Sovereign. Bringing them into the light helped me release the illusion of control I thought I had. They sought answers that God did not reveal. “Be still and know that I am God,” I read repeatedly. And I clung to that thread of truth like a lifeline.

I wanted the rhythms of my life to be predictable, comfortable, soothing. But God called for a change. I had to trust that though I didn’t know the reasons for these changes or even what changes would happen, I had to believe that God was Sovereign over this too.

Minutes later, the starlings are still flying above, in the same rhythms with different shapes and patterns. That I am a spectator to this impromptu performance brings a quiet satisfaction to my soul after years of unexpected changes in my life. God knows why they do this.

The same God that created this flock’s seamless rhythmic movement also knit me in my mother’s womb. He stretched the fabric of my being and coiled it upon itself and pulled me down to the depths. These uncomfortable rhythms called me to be more like Jesus, to have faith in the unknown, to appreciate the unfamiliar, and to accept the unanswered and undesired parts of my life. God didn’t need to tell me or show me how I was made for me to know that I was made in His image for a reason. It is not random nor without reason. Nor are these changes. But I needed to trust that the mystery of His words spoken thousands of years ago still remained true today.

After the frayed ends of that season were discarded, I find that the new rhythms that have emerged in a life I once thought implausible are both surprising and beautiful.



IMG_0532 (1)

After uprooting from the East Coast to Texas and experiencing the heartbreak of a long marriage ending, Sonia Abraham found herself overwhelmed by grief. But she discovered that God grieves endings too. As a medical writer and editor by profession, Sonia crafts words on her blog to encourage others to seek the Lord while grieving the loss of their relationships. Her favorite job is being mother to three teens and Baxter the rescue pup. She’s currently training for her next marathon. Connect with her at, Facebook and Instagram.